Retired This Hour from Wondering Crowds

Retired this hour from wondering crowds
And flower-fed poets swathed in clouds,
Now the dull dust is blown away,
Ianthe, list to what I say.
Verse is not always sure to please
Bor lightness, readiness, and ease;
Romantic ladies like it not
Unless its steams are strong and hot
As Melton-Mowbray stables when
Ill-favoured frost comes back again.
Tell me no more you feel a pride
To be for ever at my side,
To think your beauty will be read
When all who pine for it are dead.
I hate a pomp and a parade
Of what should ever rest in shade;
What not the slenderest ray should reach,
Nor whispered breath of guarded speech:
There even Memory should sit
Absorbed, and almost doubting it.